


Red Light Revisited

by frankie_31



Series: Red Light Series [2]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Ace quentin, M/M, photographer quentin, sex worker eliot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-06-28 12:19:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19812169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frankie_31/pseuds/frankie_31
Summary: Once again, Eliot finds himself in fine clothes and Quentin’s presence.





	Red Light Revisited

Margo found him first. 

Well, they found each other at the same time. But she decided to keep him first. 

Eliot had been a little younger, fleeing from the oppressive film of fog Oregon had gestated him in. He had on Carhartt’s and a flannel shirt, and Margo had set a cup of coffee down in front of him, scrutinizing him all the while. 

“What in the name of God are you wearing?”

The disdain in her voice had jarred him from his thoughts and a laugh had bubbled out of him. 

“Hand-me-downs?” He’d said, questioning himself alongside her. She’d wrinkled her nose a little, head tilted so her ponytail trailed over the shoulder of her hideous yellow dress. “Like you can talk. What are you wearing?”

“Polyester pervert lure,” she replied, smoothing a hand over her apron and turned to show him her ass. “I get good tips when I look like slutty Betty Crocker.”

Another laugh jerked out of him and he covered his mouth with his fingers. He pointed to another plaid-decked patron. “I’m wearing the same thing as that guy.”

“That guy doesn’t know his dick from a blazer. You look like off-the-rack should be giving you hives,” Margo had put a hand on her hip and frowned at him. “What’s your name?”

“Eliot,” he’d said and stuck his hand out for her to shake. “I’m new in town.”

“Obviously,” she’d drawled, but she’d placed her hand delicately in his like a princess. “Enchanté.”

He’d used his last ten dollars to pay for his coffee and to tip her. She’d taken him home to her shitty apartment and made him a black kimono from a fine gauzy material as her homework assignment from her clothing design school. It looked terrible with his work boots and crew cut but he wore it every day for nearly a month.

He’d been wearing it when he met Quentin. 

Quentin Coldwater, the elusive editorial photographer that had swept quietly into his life and left it just as cleanly. 

Eliot’s curled in a ball on the settee he and Margo had dragged upstairs, looking at the neon lights bounce off the smog over his apartment. He has a cup of tea growing cold between his hands and an alley cat angling to crawl in his lap when his phone lights up. 

A Instagram DM. From Alice, Quentin’s elegant assistant. 

Eliot feel his heart jump up in his chest a little as he swipes his phone open. He maneuvers to the app, opening the message with trepidation. 

Hello, Eliot. Please call.

The message is followed by a phone number. 

Eliot stares at his phone like the message would change, flinching when the three dots popped up to indicate Alice was typing. 

I need your assistance. Please.

He presses the phone number, dialing it without another thought. It rings once, and then Alice’s crisp tone greets him. 

“Hello,” she says and there is a pause. 

“Hey,” he replies and she sighs softly. 

“I need to book you for another shoot,” she says and Eliot waits, sensing she has more to say. “Quentin is...struggling currently. I think you could help bring his mood up.”

“Sure,” Eliot says. “When?”

“Tonight? We’re in town,” she says and there is a barely detectable thread of urgency in her voice. “I know it’s short notice so I’m happy to double your pay rate.”

“Tonight,” Eliot confirms. “Where should I meet you?”

“I’ll come get you,” Alice replies. “I need to procure supplies.”

“Give me twenty minutes to get ready. I’m still a mess from working in the kitchen. My other job,” Eliot says and Alice makes a noise of disagreement. 

“No,” she says in a funny voice. “Don’t shower or change anything. Are you wearing makeup again?”

“No,” he says slowly. 

“Please apply some. Make it messy. Like you’ve been wearing it for hours.” she says. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Good-bye.”

Eliot sits on the settee for another moment, breathing slowly and trying to steel his nerves. 

Then, he heads down to his room. Margo’s working a double, so he sends her a quick text to let her know where he’ll be. Finally, he sits at their vanity and lets himself smile in excitement. 

He touches his own face, admiring the flush of red across his cheekbones that came from the anticipation of seeing Quentin again. 

He puts on his primer, his foundation, contour and highlight. Lines his eyes with a smudgy kohl and a dusting of shimmery shadow. He puts on a glossy lip tint that made him look freshly kissed. Wonders if he should shave his body hair and then decides against it. Finally, he heads downstairs to wait for Alice. 

She’s already outside, car running and a phone pressed to her ear. She spares him a clinical glance when he gets in, but keeps up a running conversation in fluid Spanish on her phone. 

The call wraps up and she puts her phone into her purse. She flicks a look at him again and then her hand reaches out towards his face before pausing with a jerk.

“Sorry,” she says and blushes. “I’m used to models. May I touch you?”

“Sure,” Eliot says, bemused. 

She runs a slim hand through his hair, smoothing it back from his face and rubs a thumb through his lip gloss so it smears onto his chin. 

“Button your shirt up to your chin,” she says with a finality in her voice and turns her attention fully back to driving. 

Eliot obeys, chin jutting mulishly.

She meets his eye in the rear view mirror and snorts delicately.

“Keep the attitude up,” she says and that mean little lip curl reappears. “He’ll like that.” 

The rest of the ride is silent. They pull up to a warehouse in upper East side and Alice lets the engine idle. 

“The doorman has a bag for you,” she says and she looks visibly nervous. “Ask for Q.”

“What am I walking in to? Is he okay?”

“Quentin is fine. Just...he’s just having a bad time,” Alice says and bites her lip. “He gets in creative ruts. I’m hoping you can catapult him out.”

“Okay,” Eliot says and wonders when to ask for money. She seems to notice his hesitation and reaches into her purse, a small furrow appearing between her brows. 

“I’m sorry. I nearly forgot,” she says and pulls out a chubby manilla envelope. She pauses before handing it to him and her gaze flicks up to meet his. “If you can stay for multiple days we can negotiate further payment. Let me know.”

Eliot’s fingers itch to grab the envelope but he nods patiently. “Can do.”

She holds his eyes for a moment then raises her chin and pushes the money into his hands.

He receives a Walgreens bag from the doorman containing earl grey tea, two cucumber face masks and lubricant. Eliot quirks a lip at the idea of Quentin using any of it. 

The elevator glides him smoothly up to the penthouse—again. It opens on an open floor-plan, blue and white and sterile. 

In the middle of the room is a giant bed, starkly white. Eliot makes his way towards it, the bag hanging from his fingertips.

“Quentin?”

The sound of water sloshing to his left causes him to pivot. Nestled in a giant tiled area is an outrageous shower and a large, jacuzzi-style tub. A figure jerks upright in it.

It’s Quentin, hair stuck to his neck in clumps and cheeks pink. 

“Eliot,” he says breathlessly and there’s a fumble through soap bubbles until Quentin’s on his knees in the tub. “I thought you were Alice.”

“Nope,” Eliot says through a genuine smile. “Just me.”

“Eliot,” Quentin says again, and he smiles small and secret. “How have you been?”

“I’m just grand,” Eliot preens and he does a little heel turn. “And yourself?”

“Oh, I’m—I’m okay,” Quentin says and he sits back in the tub a little. “Has Alice...Has she…?”

“I’m all yours, chickadee,” Eliot supplies warmly into the awkwardness of the unspoken question about money. “Where do you want me?”

“Hang on,” Quentin says and he reaches for a towel on a teak side table beside the massive bath. “I would like to—how long do I have? The evening?”

“At least,” Eliot answers and gestures with the bag out to him. “I have some things for you. From the ice princess.”

“Alice isn’t an ice princess. She’s…very special. And very smart. Like—like, Master’s from MIT, thirteen award winning patents, smart. I think she forgets to come back down to our level,” Quentin says softly from beside the bed. He twists his hands in his towel. “I’m being very transparent tonight. You’ve caught me off guard.”

“I didn’t mean to insult,” Eliot says and his stomach twists alongside Quentin’s hands. 

“You did,” Quentin says and a wry smile spreads across his teeth. “But I like that about you.”

“I like a lot of things about you,” Eliot says, also a little too honest. Quentin flushes again at his words and Eliot bridges the gaps between them. 

He sets the bag on the side table, his eyes tracing the fine lines on Quentin’s face. He reaches for Quentin, fingers tracing his jawline and then soothing down the lines of his throat to his damp shoulders. Quentin seems to settle against his fingers with a sigh and his eyes blink closed, lazily and sweet. 

Eliot is hard pressed to break the silence between them with Quentin so sweet and pliable against him. He trails his hands back up to Quentin’s face and leans in to kiss him, his breath whispers over Eliot’s lips. 

“I don’t want you to kiss me,” Quentin says softly and pulls back ever so slightly. “Please.”

“Oh,” Eliot says and leans back, biting back embarrassment. His hands sink back down to Quentin’s shoulders. “What shall I do instead?”

“Ah. Well, I don’t know,” Quentin squirms a little and reaches up to grab Eliot’s wrists. “I don’t usually get touched. It’s...alarming.”

“Alarming?”

“No. Um. Exciting? I feel like my hearts going to explode.”

“I can...stop touching you?”

“No! No. I like it,” Quentin blurts and Eliot smiles down at him. A muscle in Quentin’s jaw twitches and he pulls away a little, hands still around Eliot’s wrists. “I like it.”

Eliot turns his head a little, slants a glance at the collection of soaps and such in a metal basket hanging from the edge of the tub. 

“How about you let me wash your hair?”

“Um,” Quentin pinks up at that and tilts his chin to the left a little, nearly coquettish. “Okay.”

Eliot unbuttons his cuffs and folds them to his elbows in short, neat movements. There’s a stool nearby, decorative probably, but he pulls it over behind Quentin anyways. 

The water is nearly tepid when he dips a wrist in and he turns on the hot water tap wordlessly, the heavy splashing of water covers his nervous heart. 

When it’s warmer, he sits on his stool and folds a washcloth over the back of the tub. 

“Dunk your hair,” he says and Quentin does. 

His chest breaches the water, face turned up and lashes dusting his cheekbones, throat long and gleaming with suds. Eliot’s eyes follow the line of his sternum down to where the milky water hides his groin. 

Quentin sits up a little, blinking back at Eliot and Eliot settles his neck against the washcloth. 

“I think tonight calls for…’Lush Lavender for Lively Locks’. Hmm?”

“That’s—that’s fine,” Quentin answers and a smile curls in the corner of his mouth. “‘Lush Lavender’. Do you wear herbal scents?”

“I probably smell like tortilla and jalapeno right now,” Eliot laughs and surreptitiously sniffs the shoulder of his shirt. “Normally I wear a nicer scent.”

“I like how you smell,” Quentin says plainly, too honest again, and he’s peering up at Eliot like there’s an answer scrawled on his forehead. 

It’s too much. 

“Close your eyes, lover boy,” Eliot says loftily and pours out a palmful of shampoo. He suds it in his own hands before he begins to card it though Quentin’s hair. His fingers find tangles behind Quentin’s ears and at the nape of his neck but he smoothes past them. The conditioner will tend to those. 

He presses a little harder, unsure if the massage will soothe or stress Quentin. His brow is a little pinched to begin with but his mouth falls open as Eliot’s fingers move. He scrubs every inch of Quentin’s scalp diligently, working at pressure points and he smiles to himself when he soaps up Quentin’s little sideburns. 

“Time to rinse,” he says softly, breaking the quiet, and Quentin slips down back into the water. 

This time Eliot’s hands follow him down and he works the soap out, careful of Quentin’s big hound dog eyes that have reopened. 

Quentin’s unguarded, hands braced on the edge of the tub but his head in Eliot’s hands. His throat pulses with a swallow and Eliot wants desperately to bite his Adam’s apple. 

“Up,” he says and moves Quentin back in position. There’s a honey-oat-milk-jojoba-blah-blah conditioner and he deposits it into Quentin’s hair. Quentin has fine, straight hair and Eliot sets to untangling his knots. 

It’s easy enough to rinse and there’s another pause when Quentin sits up and pulls the bath plug. 

Eliot watches the ridge of Quentin’s spine that the sinking water reveals and his mouth goes dry. 

“Shall I give you privacy?”

Quentin nods tersely and Eliot moseys into the kitchen to get a glass of water. The kitchen is spartan and composed of sharp lines. Even the kettle is angular. 

He turns it on for Quentin’s tea. 

When Quentin appears again, he’s tucked into a plush robe and he seems a little more centered. He carries the bag of supplies with him and almost seems to teeter into the room by accident. He steps up next to Eliot and peeks at him through the corner of his eye. 

“Hi,” Eliot says with a smile. He feels his belly warm up. “I am glad to see you again.”

“Oh,” Quentin says, small and happy. “I am too.”

He upends the bag, flushing a dusky red when he spots the lube. 

Eliot plucks the tea up and sets it to steeping, turns back and smiles a little when Quentin is still staring balefully at the bottle. 

“She forgets we don’t all point at people and demand an orgasm,” Quentin grumbles. “She’s hot enough that no one ever says no. and too socially oblivious to understand people don’t do that.”

“My Bambi is like that,” Eliot laughs and he picks up the lube and sticks it in the nearest drawer. “People don’t say no to her either.”

“Let’s hope they like each other,” Quentin says, looking relieved at the absence of sex items. “I can hear the mortar shells already.”

“Let’s,” Eliot agrees and he pulls a face mask closer to him. “Do I get one if these?”

“Um,” Quentin says and when Eliot looks over he’s gazing up at him. “I want to—May I take pictures first?”

“Whatever you’d like,” Eliot says and Quentin licks his lips. 

The tea is left on the counter, forgotten as Eliot follows Quentin to a corner of the spacious apartment. There’s a stand with rolled backgrounds against a wall, a small herd of lights and a stereo system. Quentin puts on music, low but heady and disappears into a small room offshooting the main one. 

He comes out with three bags. They all have duct tape tags on them that read ‘pull for El’.

“I’ve found a few pieces over the months—you don’t have to—it’s weird. Isn’t it? It’s weird that I want to dress you.”

“No,” Eliot says slowly. “Not weird. Can I see?”

“First, can you—will you take off your makeup? Can we start with the shower?”

“Sure,” Eliot cocks his head. “Direct me.”

Quentin’s throat works at that and he fiddles with the tie on his robe. Starts to speak and stops. Clears his throat.

“Okay,” Quentin says and gestures to a couch in front of the backgrounds. It’s black suede and Eliot makes his way over to it. Quentin lays a few fur throws from a tote over it, gestures for Eliot to sit and positions him carefully. 

Eliot ends up sprawled back over the couch, legs spread and arms above his head. Quentin sets up a camera on a tripod, up close and above so Eliot has to look up at him. 

“Okay,” Quentin says again. “You can unbutton your shirt now.”

“Yes, sir,” Eliot teases with a smile and Quentin snaps a photo. He does it how he would at home, more comfortable now that he is in a position of following directions. Having one-up on a John is more unsettling than he had imagined. He unbuttons his shirt perfunctorily and then waits for further instruction. 

“Take it off.”

Eliot does, watching Quentin over the camera and preening just the tiniest bit. He relaxes back on the couch and enjoys the feel of the furs on his back. Quentin talks him through stripping off his socks, his trousers, and then Eliot’s naked on the couch. 

He feels luxurious, sitting forward on the edge of the couch and bare in the emptiness of the apartment. Quentin’s camera works and he directs Eliot with little orders. 

Eventually, Quentin brings him a new package of makeup wipes and kneels on the couch beside him. He gets close ups of Eliot’s makeup and the removal process. 

Quentin must deem him cleaned enough and he escorts him to the shower. It’s clear he wants something different tonight as Eliot washes up alone while Quentin bustles around the apartment. 

Once he’s out, drying with a towel, he finds clothing put out on the bed for him. Soft grey chenille pants, a scarf that screams Hermès and a sapphire crushed velvet jacket. It’s decadent and comfortable and Eliot can’t wait to put it on. 

“May I?” He asks Quentin who is seated behind a camera once again. 

Quentin nods tersely and Eliot starts with the scarf, winds it through his fingers and feels the silk glide over his callouses. He wraps it around his shoulders and rubs it over the side of his face. Quentin’s taking a thousand photos and when Eliot turns to face him, cock stiffening, Quentin’s mouth is open and he’s breathing hard. 

The scarf gets trailed over his sternum, across his ribs, tickles his thighs and then gets wound around his neck until he can tie it in a rakish cravat. 

“The-the pants,” Quentin croaks and Eliot obliges. They’re unbelievably soft, structured like harem-pants and the charcoal grey makes him look milky in the din of the room. There’s not as much of a show possible with the pants but he does his best to enjoy putting them on. 

The jacket is another exercise in indulgence and Eliot shrugs it on, leaving it unbuttoned. He sits on the bed, awake further instruction.

“Tell me about her,” Quentin demands as he crosses the floor. He returns with a lamp and a gauzy bolt of pink fabric. “Bambi. Margo.”

“You know her name?”

“Oh—um. On Instagram,” Quentin pauses from where he’s draping the fabric over the floor lamp. “You tag her a lot.”

“I do,” Eliot says, a smile crinkling his nose. “She’s my best girl.”

“Your partner?”

“No,” Eliot muses. “Maybe. She’s my hero.”

“You don’t have to tell me,” Quentin says, chin on hands. “If it’s too personal.”

“No,” Eliot leans back on his hands. “Not personal. Just hard to define. I’m definitely not swinging for her team. But I love her absolutely. Margo is my person.”

Quentin motioned for him to continue.

“Growing up we were...poor. Poor as dirt. I knew it from an early age. I don’t think my brothers did. And I also knew that my mom and dad and siblings—they weren’t my people. I always knew I didn’t belong. I was made from something different. We were farmers and we worked constantly. We got a pair of boots and stocking of oranges at Christmas. I don’t think my father said my name until I was 12.

“I built a pigeon coop when I was 9, though. Made a little money on the side raising them. I built a little room up at the top and I slept out there every night with my birds. Even in the rain. I didn’t name them but I did find a lot of comfort in them.

“I graduated high school early, sold all my birds and moved here. Don’t ask me why. I just felt like I had too. And I found Margo or she found me and she took me home and the rest is history.” 

“Thank you,” Quentin murmured fervently.

Eliot raises a hand to his eyes and found them wet. He flopped back on the bed and crushes the heels of his hands into his eyes. 

He stays there, sprawled and melancholic for a while. Eventually, he feels the bed move and a cautious hand touches his bared stomach. He lowers his hands and blinks up to a worried looking Quentin. 

“I’m okay,” he says and reaches up to ruffle a hand through Quentin’s hair. “I’m surprised you don’t want pictures of me crying.”

“I do,” Quentin says and he smiles in response to Eliot's laugh. “But I like you happy more.”

“That’s nearly sweet,” Eliot says and he taps Quentin on the nose. 

“I can be,” Quentin laughs, still leaning over Eliot. 

They smile at each other like fools for a beat. Then Quentin’s mouth slides into a warmer expression. 

“You look like you’re plotting,” Eliot says and props himself up on his elbows. The jacket slides off his shoulders to pool in the crooks of his arms. He lifts his chin, meets Quentin’s gaze from under his lashes. 

“You look like you want to kiss me again,” Quentin says with a sheepish grin and Eliot leans his head back and laughs. “You do!”

“I do,” Eliot agrees merrily and his eyes dart to Quentin’s lips. “But I don’t need to.”

“Hold on,” Quentin says and he clambers off the bed. Eliot lets his chin rest on his chest as he watches Quentin fiddle with his camera. A red light blinks on the face of it. 

“You’re going to film our first kiss?”

“I’d like too,” Quentin says, suddenly shy. “Can I?”

“You can,” Eliot says and Quentin crosses back over to him. 

“I can kiss you now?”

“If you’d like,” Eliot says and let’s his head tilt back to watch Quentin. 

And so, without fuss, he does. Quentin leans down, hands careful on Eliot’s chest, and presses their lips together. It’s chaste, dry, sweet. Short. Quentin pulls back with a tiny smile and Eliot flops down on the bed. He can’t deny the happiness bubbling in his chest and follows the urge to wrap his arms around Quentin’s waist. He pulls, gently, and Quentin allows himself to be tugged down onto Eliot. 

They kiss again, and it’s longer this time. This kiss is slower, hotter and Eliot drags his teeth over Quentin’s lower lip. 

It draws a gasp from Quentin and Eliot takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss. Eventually, Quentin pulls back. He’s got an indescribable look on his face.

“What?”

“Do you miss them?”

“My family?”

“No,” Quentin answers. “The birds.”

“Oh,” Eliot says and runs his fingers up Quentin’s terry cloth-clad back. “I miss the noises they made as they fell asleep. But no. They were just birds.”

“I want to see you again,” Quentin says suddenly and Eliot can’t help his smug smile. 

“I’m available,” he says, coy. 

“I want to do a shoot,” Quentin says. “Sets, lights. Makeup. My crew. Will you?”

“Like an actual shoot? Where the pictures are public?”

“Yes,” Quentin says and tucks his face in Eliot’s neck. “A look book. I want to do a series with you. 

“I don’t know what to say,” Eliot says into the quiet.

“I was thinking maybe we could showcase some of Margo’s pieces,” Quentin murmurs into Eliot’s throat. “That fuschia coat she made a few months ago. I had a dream about you in it.”

Eliot is very aware he would be a fool to say no. 

So, he doesn’t. 

***

Eliot awakens the next day curled around a snoring Quentin. He takes a moment to absorb the evening and his decision to model some of Margo’s designs. 

Eighty percent of them are already made for him so it won’t be a hassle to pull together a collection. And he knows she is dying to meet Quentin. 

But it feels like a merging of two worlds that have no business touching. Like he’s trying to force together two magnets. 

Quentin snuffles against his chest and he can’t bite back the smile that spreads on his face. He peeks down at the other man and presses a kiss to the crown of his head. Quentin hums quietly in response, eyes squeezing shut against the morning light. 

“Five minutes,” Quentin mutters and Eliot untangles himself enough to grab his phone off the side table before settling back against the overstuffed pillows.

He opens his camera, points it at them. Quentin had wrapped the Hermès scarf around his neck again before sleep took them and he looks like a spoiled pet. 

His eyes are still sleepy and his hair a coiled mess, Quentin’s mouth was agape in his sleep and his hand is loosely crawling Eliot’s jaw where he was sprawled across his chest. 

He snaps a picture. 

Doesn’t post it or anything— but he wants to remember this. 

A text from Alice illuminates his screen further. She’s offering to get them breakfast. Ten or so moments after he accepts, the doorbell rings and Quentin starts against him. 

Eliot pulls free completely and, pulling on the nearest pants, heads to open the door. Instead of a courier, Alice stands like an Army sergeant outside the doorway with a coffee tray in one hand and a paper bag in the other.

Eliot greets her, takes her bag and a coffee from the tray, then crawls back onto the bed beside a still-stirring Quentin. Quentin clumsily paws at the coffee cup until Eliot passes it to him with a smacking kiss against his head. 

“Thief,” Eliot says in a rough, unsettlingly-fond voice and he opens the bag he’d taken. Quentin sits up just enough on his elbow that he can slurp noisily at the coffee. There’s a few croissants in the bag and two parfaits in neat, plastic cups. Eliot pulls a corner off a pastry. 

Alice sets another coffee on the side table silently and then folds herself into a nearby chair. She pulls a leather folder from her purse and sets it on the coffee table. 

Eliot looks away from her and down to his bedmate. Quentin is peeking up at him through a curtain of hair and when he meets Eliot’s eyes he looks away but his mouth curves into a tiny smile. 

“Morning, chickadee,” Eliot says and brushes Quentin’s hair out of his face. Quentin darts a look at him and then closes his eyes to take another drink of coffee. 

“Eliot,” Alice says into the softness of the morning. He looks to her. “We would like to offer you an extended contract. An exclusive one.”

“Ah,” Eliot says, at a loss. “A contract?”

“Full access to your time,” she says. “At any whim, you’d come to Quentin unless you had previously requested privacy or time off. You’d receive a weekly allowance and bonuses upon public appearances.”

“Ah,” Eliot says, again. “My job—“

“We don’t anticipate you needing to work. Your...utility bills would come under our purview. We would like full access to you.”

“I’m—hmm.”

“It’s—it’s a lot,” Quentin says and Eliot remembers he’s in the room. Quentin is still leaning on his elbow, the blanket rests on the crest of his hip and his pale skin melts into the sheets. “But I’d like you to think about it.”

“I will,” Eliot says, helpless against Quentin’s hangdog  
eyes, and Alice crosses the room to sit at the foot of the bed. She hands him the leather folder and when he opens it there is a neat contract drawn up. 

“Take that home,” she says. “Read it over. There’s no rush. I have to arrange some things for this afternoon but I’ll be back with lunch. Any requests?”

“Thai,” Quentin interjects then and Eliot looks over at him. Quentin has sat up fully now and he reaches for the bag of food. “Thai, please.”

Alice leaves with a crisp good-bye and they finish breakfast in quiet, Eliot’s silence contemplative and Quentin’s tired. 

They talk more about their past, this time Quentin shares pearls of information from his past. How he met Alice. 

She had been a genius trapped in a cycle of creation, spewing inventions and theorems violently. Sick of the impossible standards of her Silicon Valley peers, she’d fled to New York and been almost immediately approached by Quentin. 

He’d been shooting for GAP in the Red Line subway when she’d stalked past him, wrapped all in black and fuck-off energy. He’d done dozens of shoots with her, built her up to modest stardom and then she’d decided she was finished being in front of the camera and began guiding it through Quentin. 

“And here we are,” Quentin says, gesturing to the penthouse around them. 

“Here we are,” Eliot repeats, head leaning on his own shoulder, fingers dragging over the bed sheets. 

“Alice should be back with Margo soon,” Quentin says and Eliot hums nonchalantly until his words sink in. 

“Margo? Here?”

“For the shoot,” Quentin agrees and pushes up off the bed to stand. “Makeup and hair won’t be here for a minute though. I think we can get some good light on the roof. There’s a garden up there.”

Eliot raises his eyebrows and sits up as well, crosses his legs and then his arms as well. 

“I really can’t wait for that fuschia coat,” Quentin says as he buttons his pants, rocking on to his tiptoes for the raising of the zipper. “You’re going to look like a time traveling super star. I think the theme is going to be, like, ethereal-inhuman-galactic—I don’t know. What do you think?”

Eliot nibbles his fingernails, thinks how he desperately wishes he was holding a cigarette. 

“Eliot?”

“Yes, um—Sounds marvelous,” he says and squeezes his ribs a little. “Spaceman realness.”

“Spaceman realness,” Quentin parrots into the shirt he’s tugging over his head and Eliot stands then, gets dressed in jerky movements. 

He does find a cigarette pack in his jeans and he hops up on the kitchen counter by a window and lights it with very still hands. 

He’s cracked the window and is taking measured, even inhales when Quentin pads into the kitchen. 

“What’s wrong?”

“Whatever could you possibly mean?” Eliot asks, drawing a knee up and leaning his cheek on it. 

“You're too...balanced. Too steady,” Quentin leans against the counter beside him and puts a hand on his other knee. “Usually you flutter around. You’re still.”

“Just...I don’t know.”

“I’m not good at guessing,” Quentin says and he looks up at Eliot. “But I can tell something is wrong.”

“I just wasn’t exactly prepared,” Eliot says. “It’s fast.”

“Oh,” Quentin says and Eliot wants to press his thumb into the furrow between his brows. “What part is fast?”

“Margo has never met anyone I’ve...worked for,” Eliot says delicately and avoids Quentin’s eyes. 

“Ah,” Quentin says and Eliot sees him rock on his heels. “I can cancel the shoot.”

“No,” Eliot says. “I want to do it. I do. I simply need to adjust.” 

“Can I help?”

“Yes,” Eliot says. “Do you really want me to sign the contract?”

“Irrevocably, yes,” Quentin says and he reaches out to grab Eliot’s arm, rests his hands in the crook of Eliot’s elbow. “I wanted to offer you a contract that first night. Alice talked me out of it. She said I would scare you.”

“You would have,” Eliot says with a smile and he rests his hand over Quentin’s. “Why me?”

“It’s...hard to put into words,” Quentin says and rubs a thumb over Eliot’s arm. “I’ll try. You—you’re very, um, handsome. Of course. But you’re also witty. And exciting. You’re so sure of yourself. I know that you probably wouldn’t be here if I didn’t pay you but I’m okay with that.”

“Quentin—,” Eliot starts. 

“No, it’s okay. Models, um, function like that, hair stylists too. You have a-a commodity I want. Your company, your looks. I’m inspired by you. I want you in my life and I’m lucky enough to be able to make that happen. So, yes. I want you to sign the contract. I want you to come to shows with me and my shoots and let me post pictures of you on—on twitter or what-the-fuck-ever.”

It’s more words than Quentin’s ever said at once. Clumsy, perhaps, but sincere. Eliot thinks anyone else would skirt around the clandestine nature of their meeting but Quentin seems to lean fully into it. 

Eliot smiles, mind made up. 

***  
Margo doesn’t allow a moment of awkwardness. She doesn’t knock, simply marches in and stands with her hands on her hips. She’s dressed in a beaded pantsuit with a high pony and navy-silk clogs.

Eliot’s in the bath now, shaving his face in a mirror held by Quentin. She crosses the room to them, phone aloft, and takes a picture of Quentin’s red face and Eliot’s surprised stillness. 

“Perfect,” she says and her nails clack against her screen. “You two are gonna make me break out my insulin. I’m tagging you both.”

“Okay,” Quentin says after a beat. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Margo makes an exaggerated well, duh face and that’s when Alice drifts into the room. She’s changed into a wispy black minidress and thick white tights. Two men with familiar grey totes follow behind her. Margo’s designs. 

She looks a little pinched and Margo looks a little too smug. Eliot remains quiet. 

“Nice place,” Margo says, sticking her hands in her pockets. “Explains the whole Pretty Woman shtick.”

“Margo,” Eliot drawls but she’s cracked the tension in the room. Alice looks like she’s going to push them all out a window and Quentin’s flushing behind a wide smile. “Retract the claws.”

Margo shrugs and twines the end of her ponytail around her fingers. Eliot finishes shaving in quick motions and then Quentin’s holding up a robe for him to step into. It makes him feel small and vulnerable when Quentin dries his face in tiny, neat swipes with the corner of a towel. 

The doorbell sounds and Alice surges to open it, probably happy to be able to shift her focus. It reveals two people with silver cases, a tall man who reeks of cloves and a girl with her hair twisted in an ornate spray or curls and braids. 

“Penny. Kady,” Alice greets with quick hugs and then she turns to face the room. “Makeup and hair.”

“Pleasure,” Eliot says and Margo echoes a greeting. 

Quentin had migrated over to the grey totes from their apartment and was twisting his hands together above them. Margo watched his hunched shoulders for a moment before crossing to him and popping their lids. 

They descended into quiet conversing, leafing through the clothes and discarding some pieces with no discernible pattern. Eliot takes a seat in a barstool in the kitchen and Alice trails after him and begins dishing Thai food onto serving trays. 

Kady approaches Eliot, works her fingers into his hair and pulls the curls to test their buoyancy without a word. Used to models, she’s perfunctory and impersonal, turning his head to-and-fro. 

“Betty Boop finger waves?” Kady asks and Quentin turns with a wide grin. 

“Perfect,” Quentin cheers and she smoothes her hands over Eliot’s skull. 

“Perfect,” she agrees and opens her case with a click. She begins massaging mousse into his hair and it’s apparently Penny’s turn to invade his personal space. 

“You’ve got intense eyes, man,” he tells Eliot and waves his fingers over his own eyes. “Really cool.”

“Aren’t you sweet,” Eliot says, using charm to hide his discomfort. He looks at Penny from under his lashes and watches a smile split the other man’s face. 

“You don’t need much product,” Penny says and presses his thumbs into the delicate skin beneath Eliot’s eyes. “Just a little enhancing.”

“You’re the boss,” Eliot says and Kady snorts from behind him. “Or maybe she is?”

“She is,” Penny laughs and he opens his case too. 

Thirty minutes later and Eliot’s coiffed like a 40’s starlet. Penny had lined his eyes with smudgy black eyeshadow, dusted silver on his browbone and stained his lips with a berry gloss. He looked expensive and on the edge of delicate. 

He finds Margo’s eyes across the room and suddenly everything fades away. His Bambi. His best girl. 

He swans across the room to her, terrycloth robe tied loosely at his waist and feet bare. She floats into his arms like she was born there and he turns her into a tight embrace, her back to his chest, both facing the window. 

“Love you, Bambi,” he says into her hair and she squeezes his forearms. 

“I can’t believe this is happening,” she breathes and he kisses her temple. “My designs. Shot by Quentin-cocksucking-Coldwater.”

“It’s everything you deserve,” Eliot says and breathes in her signature Obsession perfume. 

“You guys ready?”

Eliot turns to see Quentin, camera in hand, smiling softly at them. 

“I believe so.”


End file.
